Archive for the ‘Uncategorized’ Category
DISCLAIMER: THIS IS A POST ABOUT A PAIR OF SHOES AND HOW MUCH I WANT THEM. DO NOT PASS THIS POINT IF YOU’RE A BOY, A MAN, OR THE OPPOSITE OF A FOOT FETISHIST.
Ahem, where was I.
Oh yes. THESE:
These are literally making my life a misery, because since seeing them with my unfortunate eyes which are sadly attached to my feminine brain (DAMN YOU OPTICAL NERVE) I can’t un-see them and I reallyreally want them. Read More…
Yes, yes, I know. You’re a girl who eats burgers therefore you’re totally ‘normal’ and make a great girlfriend because you can go to MeatLiquor with your boyfriend and not spend the whole time pushing deep fried gherkins reluctantly about your plate but seriously… I don’t need your finger lickin’ food diary all-up on my google reader. Please find something else to blog about and wake up to the fact that YOU ARE NOT AN ANOMALY.
I hate to diss a sista but what (for the love of God!) is this modern day obsession with girls showcasing their carnivorous dark side like they’ve kickstarted a new phase of female evolution? Without wanting to hurl a honey-glazed rib in the workings of their cool campaign, I eat red meat too but manage to resist the urge to market myself as a burger-loving man fantasy, who wipes her greasy mouth on the sleeve of her Celine*. *I don’t own any Celine. It’s my fantasy within a fantasy.
Her words: “Who cares about clothes? Pah! I’m so much more interested in gorging on this hangar steak”
Her inner monologue: “Shit. Perhaps the torrent of tears I shed later will loosen the oil spill that just happened all over my Hermes”
Just like all of our lives are conscientiously edited to look like scenes from The Virgin Suicides (without the suicides), these blogs promote an image of fun-loving women who are more fun-loving than most because they’re accompanied by a big fat slab of medium-rare meat. Since when was an appetite an accessory and why is it sexy (!?) to opt for offal over insalate?
I, for one, am bored of looking at pictures of gorgeous girls salivating over plates piled with cow. I will gleefully go to Hawksmoor and Instagram the hell out of my meat feast but I will not subject my Facebook friends to pictures of my jaws clamped provocatively ’round a carcass.
Eating is fun and restaurants are hip and by all means keep telling me where to go get my iron-fix but please stop making me feel like chicken is for wimps. I quite like chicken and I DO worry about getting ketchup on my dungarees. That’s why I bib myself into oblivion, eat ’til I’m sated, then head home with béarnaise sauce in my hair. This is also why I’m not a food blogger, but I’m beginning to think i should be… #man-fantasy
Like those children whom when asked “What would you like to be when you grow up?” respond with “A dolphin”*, if posed the same question I would unhesitatingly answer; “Vod.”
For those of your who aren’t familiar with Fresh Meat; 1) what the freakin’ hell have you been doing with your lives and 2) get thee to a viewing station ASAP.
Aside from Peep Show, THE holy grail of televisual comedy (Mark or Jez? Daddy or chips?) Fresh Meat is like, my favourite funny programme EVER and its star Zawe Ashton who plays Vod the GOD(dess) is my latest style icon/character role model.
You’ve all seen those scenesters sporting cigarettes as ear wear. The (technically) grown up versions of kids who smoked candy sticks ’round the back of the bike sheds at school; naively thinking they were far too cool for school when in fact, they were just about cool enough*.
Crucially, no-one ever finds out if these hipsters are actual smokers because the cigarette never gets smoked. It perches precariously, a vital accessory in their ‘I look cool, therefore I must be’ aesthetic – an elaborate ploy to fake insouciance without risking death. Which is fair enough. I fancy them.
I also fancy people who carry big and difficult books because 1) toting a tome requires dedication and/or muscles and 2) I assume the size of the book is directly proportional to the size of the carrier’s brain.